The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Biting back a sailor’s oath she’d learned from Ranald, she stopped again and glared at him. “I think you mean, Helfred, that you wish to pick my brains and winnow my heart so you can report my innermost thoughts and feelings to your uncle!”

  “Highness!” said Helfred, offended, and drew himself up to his full, inconsequential height.

  Her temper was like an unbroken horse, fighting at the end of a rope to be free. “Helfred?”

  “You are unjust, Princess Rhian,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I did not ask to be born the prolate’s nephew any more than you asked to be born daughter to a king. These matters are arranged by God, not man. My concerns lie only with you and your soul, and whatever you tell me in confidence I lock in my breast and would not reveal under any circumstance. No, not even were I to be cast into a pit of fire and tortured beyond the endurance of Rollin himself!”

  He sounded genuinely hurt. For once she looked at him, really looked, beyond the unattractive surface to the man beneath. The sincerity in his eyes and face seemed real. Conscience pricked her, and she relaxed.

  The little worm is right. It’s not his fault his mother was Marlan’s sister. I suppose, in his own way, he’s as trapped as me. Though that doesn’t mean I have to like him … or trust him.

  It did mean, though, she should try to be fair. She sighed, and made an effort to sweeten her voice. “As I can’t imagine who would want to torture you for my sake, Helfred, I think you can rest easy on that score.” She chewed her lip, then added, “You’re right. I was unjust. I know you have my best interests at heart.”

  Helfred smiled, revealing his small, crooked teeth. “Always, Highness. Please do not berate yourself. The king’s illness is a great strain. I think we all feel it, no-one more than you. But in times of trial God’s love sustains us. It is wrong of you to turn away from that. Perhaps you don’t realise how many in Kingseat look to you as an example of piety and submission to heaven’s will. It is your duty to show them how obedience to God strengthens every heart.”

  Rhian blinked. I mustn’t hit him, I mustn’t hit him. Papa would be disappointed if I hit him . “Yes. Well. That’s certainly one way of looking at things, Helfred.”

  “It is the only way,” he said earnestly. “In the love of God even great trials grow smaller. And God surely loves you greatly, Higness, to send so many trials to you in such a short time.”

  The trouble was, he really believed it. I could throw rocks at his faith and they’d bounce right off. I wonder where he gets it from … Finger by finger she relaxed her fists. “As you say, Helfred. There have been many trials.” And more to come, with Papa’s death imminent, and marriage to an unknown man .

  Helfred looked pleased. “Contemplation in chapel will soothe your spirit, Highness. I know it soothes me when I am troubled.”

  She really had no hope of avoiding this. “Oh, very well, Helfred. I’ll attend you there. You have my word. But first I really do have to pee. And bathe. And eat. And change my dress. I’ll need an hour.”

  This time he didn’t react to her lack of maidenly circumspection, only touched his thumb to heart and lips again. “Highness. I shall be waiting for you in God’s house.”

  She watched him retreat, his leather sandals thumping on the corridor carpet, his humble habit swirling around his legs. She had to give him that: even though he was well within his rights to wear silk and slippers like the other chaplains, of his own free will and in the face of his formidable uncle’s displeasure he chose the modest attire of an untried novice.

  He’s gormless and chinless and so often sanctimonious… but he’s not a bad man. Not bad like his uncle. If I threw rocks at Marlan it’s his pride they’d bounce off, not his faith.

  She sighed, and put out a hand to the wall. How her head ached. What she wanted more than anything was to fall face-down on her bed and take refuge in sleep. But no. Thanks to Helfred’s interference she must kneel for hours in the chapel, begging for help from a God she only half believed in, at best.

  You’d go a long way to restoring my piety, God, if you helped me avoid this unwanted marriage. I’m my father’s daughter, I know I’d make a good queen of Ethrea. If you did choose my family’s House to rule over this kingdom, why turn your face from it now? What have we done to earn your displeasure? What can I do to return us to your favour?

  “Go to chapel, Rhian,” she sighed aloud, answering herself, and pushed away from the wall. Ah, well. At least it would give her some quiet time to think. And she did need quite desperately to think. To find a way out of her current dilemma or, failing that, some way of reconciling herself to it. “All right. All right. I’m going to chapel.”

  “Your Highness?” said a startled courtier, in passing. He stopped and bowed. “Was there something you wanted?”

  The castle staff had long since been trained to leave her alone unless she addressed them directly. She’d found it tedious beyond bearing to be constantly fawned over just because they met her on the stairs or in a corridor. She knew she was held in awe and reverence, the courtiers and the rest didn’t need to prove it every time their paths haphazardly crossed.

  With a small effort she found a smile for Laffrie. “No. Nothing. I was … thinking aloud. Be about your business, don’t let me detain you.”

  “Your Highness,” said Laffrie, with another bow. His eyes were sympathetic. She could feel his concern, like heat from a fire. Even as he withdrew as commanded she could feel his concern. It made things worse, not better. She hated being the object of pity. Yes, her father was dying. Yes, her brothers were dead. It was sad, it was dreadful, life could be so cruel.

  But that doesn’t make me weak. I’m not weak. I’m not helpless. I’m not a fragile, hothouse flower. I’m a princess of Ethrea, the blood of kings flows through my veins. I don’t need men’s guidance, as though I were lame or blind or defective in my wits.

  And it was past time the council and Marlan and her father recognised that. Unbidden, Alasdair Linfoi’s plain, bony face rose before her inner eye.

  They say I must marry? Fine. Then I’ll marry. But I’ll marry a man that suits my purpose, not theirs. A man who pleases me, not them. They’re not the ones who’ll have to bed him. And if they think they can force me otherwise … well, that would be a pity. I’m Eberg’s daughter. Let them cross me at their peril.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The port of Kingseat never slept.

  Even so early in the morning, when sensible people were tidily in their beds or, at the very worst, eating breakfast, heavy wagons drawn by plodding oxen and patient draughthorses stood in line along Harbour Street, waiting to be allowed through the guarded merchant gates to collect the imported goods that had passed inspection by dock and customs officials, or to drop off the goods sold to foreign interests that hadn’t come into port by river barge from one of Ethrea’s other duchies. Trundling past them, heading away from the harbour, were the wagons already given access to the docks, empty or laden depending on their purposes.

  Up and down the long line of waiting wagons stamped food and drink vendors, their trays slung from wide leather straps hooked about their necks. They enjoyed brisk trade, the carters and wagoners readily parting with a few coins to stave off thirst, hunger and boredom. The fresh salt air was ripe with the rich scents of meat and potato and leek pasties, mulled cider, warm milk spiced with nutmeg and hot tea or cold ale for those who didn’t feel the nip of an early spring sunrise. Spoiling the sweetness, the ranker stink of horse and ox dung dropped in steaming piles on the cobbled streets. Urchin children with hessian sacks, small spades and nimble fingers darted among the wagons, scooping up the animal shit for later sale to market-gardeners, avid rose-growers and the like in town.

  Very little went to waste in this most capital of cities.

  Morosely waiting his turn in line, a minnow caught between two whales, Dexterity sat in his little donkey cart and whittled away at the face of his new shepherdess marionette.

  He
still couldn’t quite believe he was here.

  I must be mad. One dream brought on by indigestion and I’ve completely taken leave of my senses.

  Beneath his knife and his careful fingers, the face of the shepherdess was revealing itself. She looked like Hettie. He frowned at her.

  This is nonsense. I’m a fool.

  Lifting the marionette to his lips, he blew, very gently, then sneezed as a wood shaving went up his nose. Woken from his doze, Otto tossed his head. Dexterity snatched at the reins, just in case the donkey judged he’d had enough of hanging about here, thank you, and decided to take them back home. Thwarted, Otto blew disparagingly through his nostrils and went back to sleep. Lucky donkey. Dexterity returned his attention to the puppet he so lovingly carved.

  If this is a fool’s errand I’ll never tell Ursa. She’d laugh me into the middle of next week if I told her I’d come down to the harbour in search of a man with blue hair because Hettie told me to.

  He’d woken from restless sleep at the brink of sunrise without the slightest intention of going anywhere near the harbour. No intention of searching for a ship, or a sailor, or a man named Zandakar. Certainly with no intention of buying him.

  Buying men, like groceries? It’s an abominable notion. Bad enough we let the slave ships into our harbour and do business with the nations that truck in slavery. But to become a slave owner myself? Impossible! Not to mention illegal. Hettie, my dear love, what were you thinking?

  The wagon in front of him creaked into motion then, and it was time to trundle a few steps closer to the harbour inspection point. Dexterity craned his neck to see round the wagon’s bulk. Surely it was nearly their turn by now? Yes. Two more wagons to be assessed, then it was him. He waved away yet another hopeful pie vendor and returned his attention to his wooden shepherdess.

  Yet here I am, on Hettie’s say-so, waiting to be allowed into the docks. Yes indeed. I’m completely mad.

  And entirely incapable of not getting out of bed and coming down to the harbour. Because as he’d lain beneath his blankets in the pre-dawn gloom his squirrelling thoughts had come to one inescapable conclusion: either it wasn’t Hettie who’d come to him in the bath last night, in which case all he’d lose was a little time …

  … or it was Hettie. In which case there would be a slave ship with a red dragon figurehead and a sailor with a triple-plaited beard and a man called Zandakar whose hair was blue.

  And if they are there, then it means the other things she said are true too. Ethrea in danger. Princess Rhian in danger. And my plain life about to become very … interesting.

  Abruptly and deeply unsettled, he returned the shepherdess and his whittling knife to their leather satchel, woke Otto from his doze and waited impatiently for the line of wagons to move again.

  One way or another there’s no going on until this is settled.

  At last it was his turn to explain his presence to a harbour official. He’d decided he couldn’t possibly tell the truth. Who would believe him? Instead he’d concocted a tale about having to meet with a potential supplier of rare woods and fabrics for his toymaking business.

  “Ayesuh?” said the harbour official, and spat a stream of baccy juice onto the cobbles. “That’ll be seven piggets, then.”

  “Seven piggets?” said Dexterity, staring. “To drive my donkey and cart along a few piers? Seven piggets? ” His voice slid up the scale of outrage like a toy trombone.

  “Ayesuh,” said the official, vastly unmoved. He was a large man, with a straggle of red hair over his battle-scarred scalp and arms strong enough to lift a dozen anchors without trying. “Drive it. Tie it. Occupy space with it and like as not leave donkey droppings for us to clean up after. Seven piggets, Mr Jones. Take it or leave it, makes no difference to me.”

  Dexterity sighed. Seven piggets. He asked as much for a wooden pony, which often as not took a whole morning’s work to put together, and that was before the paint job. But what choice did he have? Trundling about in his waist purse, he produced the coins and dropped them reluctantly into the harbour official’s enormous palm.

  “Right you are then,” said the official, and waved his hand. “Off you go.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” said Dexterity. “Although I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a boat with a red dragon figureh—”

  “Off you go,” said the harbour official, glowering. “You’re obstructing a king’s man in the execution of his duty.”

  “My apologies,” Dexterity said hastily. “Good morning. Come along, Otto, hup-hup!”

  With a distinct lack of enthusiasm Otto hup-hupped his way past the official and a nearby gaggle of wagons and carts, through the noise of brisk merchant enterprise, sailors shouting and singing, dockhands swearing, and the ripe smells of manure and produce and the wafted stink of the fish wharf, some distance away, onto the cobbled harbour apron from which pier after pier protruded like teeth on a comb.

  So many sailing vessels from so many nations placidly riding the gentle harbour, tied tight to their moorings like stabled horses. Cogs, smacks, whirlers, fleets, yachts, fourmasters, gigs, deep-bellied traders, sails snapping sharply in the salty breeze. Eyes wide, Dexterity stared. He seldom needed to visit Kingseat Harbour. Children’s toys weren’t much in demand as an export, unlike the grain and wine and wool and linens and silks and brocades, the gold and silver and jewelled crafts, the pottery and crockery, the hides and woodwork and metalwork and so forth that poured into Kingseat by river and road, bound for distant lands at fabulous prices. Every so often he’d accompany Ursa to the harbour markets and hold her basket for her as she picked her way around the myriad stalls, hunting for some rare herb or other. On those uncommon outings he’d sometimes spy a special piece of timber from the Far East, ebony or foxwood, or a little pot of enamel in a colour not seen so often in Ethrea, and then he’d part with his hard-earned piggets—and maybe, if the wood or colour were fine enough, a talent or two—and endure Ursa’s scathing remarks on fools who spent their money as though it were on fire.

  “Oh dear,” he said to Otto, letting his gaze roam over all those moored ships. “I think we’re going to be here for quite a while.” Of course if he asked someone for help, a dockhand or a sailor or one of the merchants, he might find what he was looking for more swiftly … but he’d also draw attention to himself. And a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades told him that might not be wise.

  Not when it’s a slave ship I’m looking for.

  Instead, he gave himself neck ache swivelling his gaze from side to side, driving Otto at a snail’s pace up and down each long pier, searching for a red dragon figurehead. There were bare-breasted ladies and dolphins and horn-headed bulls, seasprites and seahorses and seawolves and even a unicorn, once … but no sign of a red dragon. Behind him, the merchant gates were a dot in the distance and there was only one more pier to search.

  It was beginning to look as though Hettie had been mistaken after all. Or that the whole thing really could be laid at the door of Ursa’s plum duff.

  And then the clean salt breeze jinked, and the fresh air was suddenly tainted with the sickly stench of unwashed bodies and the sour sweat of fear, and pain.

  Otto threw up his head, snorting, and Dexterity gasped aloud, one hand flying to cover his nose and mouth.

  “God save us! What is that?”

  At the very end of the harbour’s last pier, separated from the other moored ships by three empty berths as though it were a pariah, rocked a deep-bellied boat. Black, without a single wasted line or so much as a brass-sparkle of decoration or brightwork. Even its sails were black, tight furled to the masts like waiting fists, ready at a moment’s provocation to strike the wind full in the face.

  It had a roaring red dragon figurehead.

  The breeze jinked again and another wave of foul stench wafted from the vessel, poisoning the glorious morning. Cold sweat broke on Dexterity’s brow and down his back, but he picked up Otto’s reins and shook the little do
nkey into a huffy trot towards the slave ship that Hettie had asked him to find. He attracted a few interested glances from the sailors unloading cargo from the moored ships he passed, but he ignored them.

  Oh dear. Oh Hettie. Perhaps this is the dream.

  Up close, the red dragon figurehead was a fearsome thing, carved from a scarlet timber he’d never seen before in his life, all scales and teeth, eyes like hot coals glaring over the harbour as though it wanted to burn everything in its sight to ash. Staring at it, one hand still pressed to his nose and mouth, Dexterity felt his scudding pulse stutter.

  Movement caught his eye. A sailor, come to look down over the railing, of middle age and sun-burnished skin, lean and long and not to be crossed. He had dark hair clubbed close in a queue, one single green staring eye, and his beard was plaited into three neat tails. If he had to guess, he’d say the man hailed from Slynt.

  Heart thudding, he eased Otto and the cart to a standstill. “Good morning, sir,” he called up to the slave ship. “Might I trouble you for a few words?” The sailor with the triple-plaited beard spat. Taking that as sailor speak for “yes”, he added, “In private? I’ve business I’d prefer not to shout at the top of my lungs, if you know what I mean.”

  The sailor considered him for a moment then put one hand to the slave ship’s railing and leapt down to the pier as neatly as a cat. With the supreme indifference of a cat, he proceeded to piss into the softly surging waters of Kingseat Harbour. Finishing his business he tucked himself away inside his baggy blue trousers, hitched his broad leather belt around his narrow, dangerous hips, and turned to take stock of his visitor. The sailor wore no shirt, and his nipples were pierced with small golden rings. The broad sun-browned planes of his chest were tattooed with gory images of harpooned whales.

  Dexterity cleared his throat. This close to the ominous black slave ship he was hard put not to gag. More than anything he wanted to fish his handkerchief from his pocket and plug his nostrils to save himself from the eye-watering odour that thickened the air almost past breathing. But something told him the piratical sailor might take offence at that … and he didn’t look the kind of man who took offence without offering a little bloodshed in return.